Whatever I have touched has turned to ash.

The fireplace of my life bears no traces

of burnt coal, papers or embers

to show that I had once been afire.

Whatever I have said has turned to silence.

My words have disappeared,

Left no echo, only a hollow present.

I hear only the stillness of my waiting grave.

Whatever I have written has turned to dust,

The grime that accumulates on un-read books. 

I will re-live when someone opens a page,

Sees my name, and forgets its spelling.

Whatever I thought has returned to join

Siblings unborn, unformed ideas

That float in the amniotic fluid around 

my grey, diminishing brain.

Whatever I was will return to earth,

To fertilise the soil that once sprouted me.

Whatever I was is no more. I am no more

Than the sole pall-bearer of un-mourned Self.

F.S. AIJAZUDDIN,

26 May 2015